


Breathing On the Other Side Of Land

by bravinto



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Body Image, Depression, F/M, Fatphobia addressed but nothing bad, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Weight Gain, eventually, sex mentioned but not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-10 05:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravinto/pseuds/bravinto
Summary: All in all, it’s a nice home, adequate and cozy, suited for all of their needs. And yet, Foggy feels a strange sadness eating at him, as he settles in his new bed for the first time. A new place, a new start, shouldn’t it be bringing him joy and excitement instead of melancholy and dejection? After a long and stormy night at sea, struggling against the waves and the hurricane, he’s washed ashore, onto a safe patch of firm land; but in the cold morning light all he can see is a desolate rocky island and a wreck of his old life. Foggy knows he really shouldn’t feel this way, with his health improving and his friends at arm’s reach, but still somehow the refreshing sleep and hopes for a new bright day elude him, and all he gets is tired maritime metaphors and ennui.After the events of Waid’s run in the comics, Foggy, Matt and Kirsten move in together and settle in San Francisco, building a home and a family; meanwhile Foggy decides to gain back the weight he’s lost in the course of his illness to find himself again.





	Breathing On the Other Side Of Land

**Author's Note:**

> Volume 5 does not happen in this universe >:(
> 
> I would like to thank chargetrasnfer at chargetransfer.tumblr.com for the lovely sweet illustrations! <3  
> and significantowl for being a wonderful beta <3  
> also the Big Bang mods for bringing together this wonderful challenge  
> and all my friends who cheered me on to help me on this journey!!!

 

It all starts, more or less, when they all move in together. Arguably, one could say it started way earlier, maybe when McDuffie, Murdock and undercover Nelson fled to San Francisco, or maybe around the time Matt offered to reopen their practice again. Maybe as far back as Columbia law school. But this nice large apartment on the fourth floor surely feels like a symbol of something new. Not a new book - but a new chapter, Foggy decides, as he observes his newly furnished room.

It’s not big, squeezed as it is between Kirsten’s and Matt’s; but he likes it that way, it gives him a safe feeling. Matt called dibs on the corner room with the fire escape, which was fair, and Kirsten wanted a bigger room.

In between living in the hospital ward, faking his death, and leaving incognito for the West Coast, Foggy doesn't have many possessions left that would require a lot of space. He's got a couple of boxes containing, in no particular order, his most favorite suits, diplomas and awards, medical history, several beloved bow ties, a handful of memorabilia, a book or two, and some sad dust. When he's done unpacking, the room still looks barren, but minimalism is in these days, and, he keeps reminding himself, he'll have a lot of time to accumulate all kinds of junk as he gathers moss in this new place.

He finds a New York City Bulletin front page with his obituary at the bottom of the last box and briefly considers framing it and hanging it on the wall to liven the place up, but decides against it. If he lived alone, he would have certainly done it, but here, he doesn't want the grim reminder to upset his friends. In the end, he just throws the tacky faux tigerskin blanket he'd bought at Ikea (he couldn't resist the kitsch) onto his narrow bed and leaves it at that.

Getting this place ate up a huge chunk of what had been left of their million after paying off Foggy’s astronomical health care bills, but it was decided that in the long run cohabitation would be more economically effective. They still have some left, but given that Matt and Kirsten had to close the office, they should be cautious about spending for now. They plan to reopen when the brouhaha has died down; in the meantime Kirsten has gotten a job at the DA’s office, and Matt has a temporary gig with some friends of friends, willing to overlook his irregular attendance as long as he puts up, and their marriage law practice. They both tell Foggy he shouldn’t worry and needs only to concentrate on his health, but he knows that sooner or later he’ll have to find a source of income. So far it doesn’t look good: he’s researched the bar applications, and it’s not promising at all. Most likely, this is not only a new home, it is also a new career.

The apartment was in a good condition when they got it, and the only minimal works needed they were capable of doing themselves. The pipes were apparently laid in funny, which Matt pointed out, head cocked to the side, but it didn’t cause any troubles. Dressed in their worst clothes, dusty and stained all over, they fixed the annoying creaks, painted the walls, drilled holes for lamps and cupboards. Having an acrobat and a hobby rock climber in the family made it easy to finish the tricky works under the ceiling in record time. Foggy only had to bring up screwdrivers, nails and refreshments on demand, as his housemates hung upside down and put the lights on.

Matt gave Kirsten and Foggy free rein to pick any offensive colour they wanted for his bedroom, as long as they both agreed that they liked it.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Foggy asked him.

 “You pick, or I will,” Matt answered, grinning.

It ended up intense peach-orange with purple accents.

 

Matt made a lot of turtle faces about the smell of various varnishes and finishes used, so they waited a good week after the last stroke of paint was laid to make sure every nook and cranny had dried properly, before moving in. In the meantime a trip to Ikea for furniture happened, and then the second trip to Ikea immediately after, when it became clear they had forgotten to buy half the necessary appliances. The act of assembling the items reconciled Foggy with Ikea, in general, when it turned out that putting together a bed or a cupboard is easy and fun when you have three sets of hands instead of one. Strength in numbers, indeed.

All in all, it's a nice home, adequate and cozy, suited for all of their needs.

And yet, Foggy feels a strange sadness eating at him, as he settles in his new bed for the first time. A new place, a new start, shouldn't it be bringing him joy and excitement instead of melancholy and dejection? After a long and stormy night at sea, struggling against the waves and the hurricane, he's washed ashore, onto a safe patch of firm land; but in the cold morning light all he can see is a desolate rocky island and a wreck of his old life.

Foggy knows he really shouldn't feel this way, with his health improving and his friends at arm's reach, but still somehow the refreshing sleep and hopes for a new bright day elude him, and all he gets is tired maritime metaphors and ennui.

He gives up eventually. He knocks lightly on the wall and hears the answering knock. Matt is awake and willing to chat (there is a different knock for “leave me alone”. You don’t go through rooming together and twenty years of friendship without developing your own secret language). Foggy considers taking a blanket with him, but then decides Murdock will just have to share. He grabs a pillow under his arm and pads through the living room, where the lights and shadows that seep from the street corner outside fall crisscross over the floor and furniture and create a strange and unfamiliar landscape, so different from what the place looks like in the daylight. Foggy has never been here at night before.

Matt is in bed but not asleep, earbuds tucked into his ears, the cords glistening over the blanket. He pulls one out.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

“Mhm,” Foggy mumbles an agreement.

He suddenly gets a feeling that something in the world - as Foggy knows it - is about to change. Not a disaster, not an epiphany, not a revolution. Just a small but noticeable change, like a page turned.

“Mind if I get in?”

Matt nods.

“I’m naked..?” he says, a little like a question.

Of course he’s naked.

Well, Foggy won’t be scared off by mere Murdock flesh. He climbs into the silky bed, aiming for the right side. Matt takes the pillow from him and kinda casually puts it under his own neck. Okay then. Foggy lays his head on Matt’s shoulder, snuggles, feels him squirm.

“What?” he asks.

“Your shirt is scratchy.”

“All shirts are scratchy, buddy,” Foggy grumps. “Such is the nature of things.”

It’s just an ordinary T-shirt he wears to bed, old and worn-soft, with some sort of sport-related logo printed on it and partly flaked off.

“Well,” Matt says. His face is in the shadows, but the grin rings loud in his voice. “Take it off, then.”

Foggy know when he’s talked himself into a corner. The only way to deal with this gracefully is to lose the shirt.

He undresses without a hitch. His heartbeat probably doesn’t even spike. He’s too old and seasoned to be played like this. He crawls back right into Matt’s arms.

Despite all the gangly bits and all the pointy bits, Matt’s actually quite cozy to cuddle with, if you know how to fit. Foggy knows. He wiggles his way in, settles comfortably half-on top of Matt. They are chest to chest, skin on skin now, the only piece of fabric between them is Foggy’s briefs (are these scratchy too, Murdock?), and it feels redundant and pointless against the closeness of their bodies, an afterthought. Matt covers him with the blanket and holds on; for a while they just rest silently in the warm cocoon.

“Your skin is getting better,” Matt remarks quietly.

Foggy wants to ask him how he knows what his skin was like before, but then he remembers his time at the hospital, when Matt was there. He'd hold Foggy's hand through the painful procedures. On the stale nights, when Foggy was too sick to sleep, sometimes Matt would climb onto the bed and sit at the head, put a pillow on his lap and pull Foggy close, petting his back and head until it lulled him to sleep. The nurses tried kicking him out, but he'd just sneak back in, and anyway, it was helpful, so they just let them be. It's all a little blurry in Foggy's memory, through the fog of illness and heavy drugs in his system, as well as some mental blocks his mind has constructed around the worst of that experience. Still, Foggy remembers, even though he doesn't want to.

"Why is it that anything you say automatically starts to sound creepy if you mention skin? Not you, specifically, just in general."

"Because you watch too many horror flicks, bud," Matt sniggers.

"Mhmmm, someone here has to be a man without fear, right."

Matt’s chest shakes with quiet laughter. He ghosts his fingers through Foggy's hair which is at the stage where it's still very short and fluffy. Ever since it's started to grow back, Matt can’t keep his hands off it. Foggy sighs.

"I'm glad the hair is back," he says. "A bit ago some skinheads mistook me for one of their kind, tried to chat, it was very awkward."

"How did you escape?"

"I felt a little nauseous, and I decided not to hold back. Vomiting violently all over everyone's shoes worked like a charm."

"Creative," Matt says, impressed, and Foggy hides his smile in Matt's neck, warm with the praise.

Matt pulls him in and rubs his face against Foggy's, like an affectionate cat. They share a breath, and their mouths slide very close; it's not a kiss, exactly, just lips catching against lips in motion. But it's sweet, and the gesture stirs a powerful wave in Foggy, the achy feeling under his ribs that can only be banished if Matt squeezes him as tight as humanly possible. He presses his cheek to Matt's and holds on.

"What is happening?" Foggy asks. "I think something is happening."

“Yeah, I think so too.”

“We’ll need to sort it out with Kirsten,” Foggy says.

“I want to sort it out with you, first,” Matt whispers.

“Fair enough.”

Fair enough. They are together in bed, almost naked and almost kissing. Over the years they have danced on the edge of something bigger several times, but never this close.

“I want to be with you always,” Matt says, eventually.

“You got it, Matty.”

“I love you so much, Foggy. I want to be with you in every way.”

“I want that, too,” Foggy says and feels Matt’s lips on his temple, a feather-light touch.

It _is_ a kiss.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” Matt says, tentative. “I always ruin everything.”

“Then don’t. I know you, Matt. You are used to things turning badly, and when something good lasts, you get spooked and restless and sabotage it yourself. I know you are trying to get over this. Things can go well, and they will.”

“‘s hard,” Matt confesses.

“I know. But I also know that somewhere along the way we’ll have it figured out, okay? I love you helluva lot too, I won’t let you go.”

“Okay.”

Matt rubs his hand up and down Foggy’s back. The gesture is comforting for them both. After a while the fatigue of the last day of their move catches up with Foggy, and he dozes off on Matt’s chest. Through the haze of sleep he registers Matt put his earbuds back in and go back to listening to whatever it was he was listening to beforehand. His palm never leaves Foggy’s back.

 

It feels early when he wakes up next morning with his face smooshed against Matt’s back to the scratching noise coming from the door. A second later it bursts open and Kirsten barges in, already in her office suit, her make-up proudly on.

“Matt, you still home?” she says in that cheerful loud tone that early risers use to talk to night people in the mornings; and then does a double take. “Oh. Hi, Foggy.”

Foggy experiences a brief but powerful gratitude: Matt hasn’t hogged all the blanket, and neither has Foggy kicked it off in his sleep too much, so he’s mostly covered.

“Nothing happened?” he offers weakly. Why does he sound so unsure?

“Hmmm,” Kirsten drawls and raises an eyebrow at him. “Too bad. Welp, I gotta run to work. Let’s talk about this in the evening.”

“Roger that.”

“Gotta go, I just wanted to tell Matt to run by Terry Wallace’s office. Hey, Matt! You need to run by Terry Wallace’s office.”

“Myeah,” Matt mutters, without even turning his head.

Kirsten doesn’t look impressed.

“I will remind him,” Foggy promises.

“I said I’ll do it,” Matt says from the depths of his pillow.

“Alrighty. Cheers!”

Kirsten sails out of the room.

“Have a good day - !” Foggy whisper-shouts after her, but she’s already gone.

He feels increasingly awkward, being caught in Matt’s bed like that. When nothing even happened, other than some sorely needed emotional honesty. They will really need to sort it out with Kirsten. But for now he’s got a respite, and the only reasonable thing to do is to go back to sleep. Foggy turns and hides his face in Matt’s back again. The world can wait.

 

Next time he wakes up, it’s noon. The sun has left the room, hidden behind a tall building directly south from their corner. The bed has gone cool: Foggy’s alone in it. He can’t see or hear Matt anywhere in the apartment. For a second, his heart sinks.

After all they’ve been through, after all the confessions and resolutions, would Matt still want to run? Is he that afraid of being happy? Or did Foggy just make a mistake when he thought he could live here?

But then he feels something itchy on his forehead. It turns out to be a post-it note, penciled in Matt’s uneven scribble:

“Gone on business. B back @ 4. Soup in the fridge.”

Foggy gets up and eats the soup in silence, as warmth returns into his chest. It’s good and rich, made from scratch out of the beef and vegetables they bought yesterday; with little pepper and salt but enough parsley and celery to make it tasty in a subtle way. He should give Matt more credit and have more faith in what they all are trying to build here.

He takes a shower and walks naked around the apartment, because that’s what you do when you’re alone at home, right? He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stops. Even after all those months he’s still surprised at his new slim form. His cheeks are not so gaunt anymore, and the dark shadows have lifted off from around his eyes. He no longer feels like the faintest breeze could throw him off his feet. He’s still thin, though, the proper “I don’t have to think of hiding my double chin when someone snaps a photo of me”, the “I can shop wherever”, the “not gonna hide behind the locker door while I change at the gym” thin, convenient body shape. It is something he had been thinking of for years. Not recently, because there’s been too much going on already; but in the past, on some of the longer, darker and lonelier nights he used to look at himself and imagine how different things could be if only he were more thin and attractive. A sharp and dashing specter instead of a soft and soggy potato. He never had enough willpower to do anything about that, and dwelling on it only led to darker places still. It seems bizarre to him to finally have this sort of body he wished for, without actually trying. Well, if you don’t count trying to survive, that is. Here it is, the perfect reflection (at least, as perfect as it is ever gonna get, short of plastic surgery), but strangely, seeing it doesn’t bring him joy. It doesn’t cause many emotions at all, except feeling vaguely alien and misplaced. He inspects his crescent chestnut hair and the frown looming over the deep set of his eyes, the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. God, he'd never had prominent cheekbones for as long as he could remember. He only ever had cheeks.

He looks lower, to the narrowness of his chest and the big hollow pit where his stomach is supposed to be. His body looks like it is made of angles, and it is just. Not his.

Foggy sighs. The price must have been too high.

He's got a whole drawer stuffed with suits and shirts, the colour of lime and grass and avocado, all way too large for him now. He kept them because he didn't want to give up on himself, didn't want to cut ties to his life; but now that he thinks of it, he also kept them simply because he liked them, how they were comfortable and stylish and made him feel confident and badass. All at once, Foggy misses wearing his suits and his bowties, filling them, owning them, owning his body. He stares at his thin form and he misses his volume and his weight. And like a switch turned, he wants it all back.

“I want to get fat again,” he tells his reflection quietly.

This is something to think about.

 

“Sorting it out with Kirsten” happens later at night, when everybody's home, gathered around the light supper and wine in the kitchen. It's actually way less awkward than Foggy feared. He's standing by the window, gazing out into the purple April twilight condensing in the air. Matt is perched on the counter with a glass in his hand; his lips are stained red. Kirsten is finishing off her bowl of soup.

"It's okay, honest," she says, and then adds with a mischievous smirk, "you know, it's not my first go at a poly relationship."

Matt's eyebrows climb up high over his glasses.

"Really? You've done this before?"

"Yup. A couple of times."

"Doesn't it..." Foggy starts, thinking of a gentle way to phrase his question, "doesn't it make you sorta... apprehensive, though? Given that you're here, it looks like those relationships didn't last..."

But she shrugs, unconcerned.

"Weren't meant to last. There was a couple I dated in law school, but we all knew we were too young and that it was temporary. And then - remember Dina?" she nods at Foggy. "She and I and another lady went out casually for a while before we decided we were better off as friends. After a little while we ended up as roommates."

"You dated Dina?"

It's now Foggy's turn to gape. Dina seems so far away now, a sweet friends-with-benefits memory from before shit hit the fan (again). They met online and went out for drinks on a night they were both lonely and bored; Dina turned out to be a lot of fun to be around, either with or without clothes. Maybe that's how she prefers her relationships: short and easy and fun. Foggy suddenly realizes that he's missed her. It's been months, of being sick and then of being dead; there are so many people he lost contact with.

"Wow this seems such a long time ago."

"In fact, I Skyped with her just last weekend."

"Oh cool. What is she up to these days?"

"Finished her internship, is now practicing medicine in New York. She says she was happy to hear of your resurrection, Foggy."

"Wow," Foggy mumbles again, feeling less like a mere ghost of himself he's been for ages. "Say hi from me next time you two chat?"

"Sure."

"Ahem," Matt coughs, sounding half-amused, half-irritated, "could we get back on the topic, please?"

"Ah yes, you guys want to bone and also live happily ever after, and you wanna know if I'm okay sharing Matt with Foggy."

"Crudely put but correct," Matt concedes.

"Well, I don't see why this should be a problem."

"Are you sure?" Foggy asks.

"Yes. Look, I've known that Nelson and Murdock were a package deal from day one. If you are willing to make this work, so am I. Now," she reaches out and holds Foggy's and Matt's hands in hers. "I officially give you my blessing. You may now kiss the Foggy."

Matt laughs his big, happy laugh and jumps down. Foggy steps closer and feels a mirroring dopey smile bloom on his own face as he is swooped and held in Matt's arms, leaned back and kissed thoroughly, in the best hero/damsel traditions. It's good.

 

Foggy has been avoiding going out. Maybe he’s got used to isolation over the course of his illness; it’d been what? - months? If he’s being honest with himself, though, the true reason is that he feels strangely vulnerable, walking alone in the streets, without the comforting (and slightly sweaty) envelope of his disguises, even in broad daylight. Especially in broad daylight. Who can see him, who can recognize him? Is it bad, if they do, and why? Or perhaps Matthew Murdock is not the only one who will need to get used to life without secrecy. Usually he’s fine when he’s with Matt or Kirsten; it’s not just the physical safety of being guarded, the friendly chat also helps to take his mind off anxiety. Foggy suspects that Matt must have an idea, at least subconsciously, of what’s up with Foggy’s head, because he volunteers to accompany him around town whenever he can, his arm always wrapped safely around Foggy’s shoulders. That, or he’s being creepy and overprotective, which, well. In this particular case Foggy doesn’t mind either way. Still, he can’t get his life back on track if he needs a chaperon wherever he goes.

This is a private issue that he must solve on his own. He tugs on the hem of his favorite cozy shirt one last time. Enough procrastination, his appointment awaits. He takes a deep breath and leaves the cool safe shade of the tiled main entrance, diving into the blinding San Francisco sun.

 

“Why are you here, Mr. Nelson?”

It's a pleasant room, sunlit and quiet. The rays of tired afternoon sunlight stretch diagonally across the floor, almost but not quite parallel to the pattern on the linoleum. Foggy thinks on his answer, looks over the room. Sam the therapist is patient.

“I guess I am trying to be smart about something,” he says eventually.

“You specified you needed one consultation on a specific issue, is it correct?”

“Yes.”

He wants to start at the beginning, but it's hard to find the beginning in this tangled mess of emotion, history, and relationship. He allows his lawyer skills to take over and starts with an introductory example: he describes the moment he saw himself in the mirror and the history behind it. Other words fall into place after that.

“As far as I understand, you want to gain back the weight you lost during your illness, am I right? Why do you need a psychological consultant for that?”

The question surprises him.

“I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“And yet you don't sound so sure. This is a straightforward decision that you have justified perfectly to yourself. Why the hesitation?”

“I am a lawyer, Sam,” he chuckles, “I can justify anything.”

“A devil's advocate?” she asks, amused.

“More times than I can count. Not this time, though.”

“You seem to have a healthy relationship with your experience, Mr. Nelson,” she says. “I suppose you could think of it from a different perspective. It may be helpful to accept your experience as a part of you.

“I want to word this carefully and I hope the difference in meaning will not escape you. What you have experienced is part of your life and your memories, and accepting it as such may help you take more responsibility of your life. This is not to say you must feel guilt, on the contrary - the decisions you may be hesitant about are valid, because you make them. It is not some faceless entity deciding your fate, it is you.”

“That is…” Foggy muses, “...actually very helpful, thanks.”

“My job is to show you the options,” she smiles.

“I will think of it. Now… there’s this other issue.”

“Oh?”

Foggy looks around for some sort of crutch, but he knows that the sooner it is out there, the faster it will be over.

“I have a partner and I don't know what they will say about this.”

Foggy looks at Sam and he could swear he sees the glint in her eyes he’d seen in the eyes of the sharkiest lawyers he’d known when they picked on a weakness in his strategy. Sam tastes blood in the water.

He ends up spilling his guts, for real. It all comes out in a jumble, and the emotion is so huge that he probably won't remember the exact words later. It is mostly about Matt, but also about Foggy's life, how much of it was lost to one catastrophe after another, so that now it doesn't feel like there is enough left to fill an entire person. How maybe he should be going slow, but instead he keeps piling up new things onto himself. How he's afraid that he's building a castle on sand. How he knows he will have to stand up for himself, but he really doesn't wanna.

Sam listens and nods, and he keeps talking until his hour is over. In the end, before walking him to the door, she says:

"Insecurities are normal. It's okay to feel vulnerable after going through a rough time. It is also something that can be worked on and overcome. If you want, we can continue on a more regular basis."

"You know what," Foggy says. "Once I've figured out the steady income thing, I just might."

 

“You look tired,” Kirsten remarks when they meet in the evening over the kitchen tea.

She was already home when he returned, singing cheerfully in the shower, her shoes, clothes, laptop and other various belongings strewn all over the entry way. Foggy moved her shoes into the shoe rack and the rest of her things into a more compact pile, then went to roam the fridge for some sort of snack.

Kirsten sauntered in some minutes later, wrapped in Matt’s fluffy robe, her hair damp and her face fresh and flushed.

“Hi!” she said. “Foggy, where did you put my laptop? I need to check email, Les promised to send me a thing.”

“Hi. It’s on the sofa over there.”

She fetched the computer and nestled at the table with a cup of rooibos.

“Sorry for throwing things about. I was desperate for a bath.”

“It’s alright,” Foggy said. “Oh, I didn’t mean it in a passive-aggressive way! It’s just a habit. I guess I go into a tidy mode when I cohabitate with Matt.”

Kirsten sighed.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while. The breeze coming through the open window was warm; it carried the smell of fresh pastry and quiet tango notes. Their neighbor was at it again, she loves baking and dancing to the old music alone in her spacious, somewhat empty apartment. Sometimes at night, when they go quiet, holding on to each other, Matt tells Foggy tales about the people he can sense in the building. Foggy is gradually making peace with the inherent breach of privacy that comes with Matt’s abilities. If he wants to date the guy, he must get used to that, it’s only fair. When he learns all these small facts about his neighbors, it feels as if he is a little closer to them now. He thinks of Matt, alone in the dark, knowing all sorts of intimate things about people but not able to reach out and share back. How great it is to live all together now, to have this cozy, if perhaps non-conventional family, to actually know each other… Matt insists that the baking neighbor is happy.

Kirsten took a sip of her tea and chewed pensively on the sandwich that Foggy had offered her.

“It’s been a while, but I still don’t know Matt as well as you do,” she admitted. “I’m not always sure of his needs or feelings. He’s not very forthcoming with that.”

“To be fair, it took me decades to figure him out,” Foggy laughed. “And he’s still a bit of a mystery. But don’t worry! We’ll get him to share.”

“You should share, too,” Kirsten pointed out.

 

That’s how they get to the issue of Foggy looking tired.

"I visited a therapist today," he confesses.

Taking control of his life, huh? He might as well start with getting the question out in the open. Kirsten cringes in sympathy.

"That can be exhausting," she agrees. "How did it go?"

Foggy wiggles a hand. The visit left him a little raw and pensive, but that must be normal. Overall, he counts it as a success.

"It was alright. I decided to gain back my weight."

He drops the bombshell and waits, observing Kirsten for any reaction. She raises her eyebrows, but otherwise seems unperturbed as she looks back at him.

"What?" she asks eventually with a laugh. "You're looking at me like I'm about to bite your head off."

"People don't always take well the news of their friends going fat."

"Well, first of all, it's your business, and even if I had an Opinion - capital "o", - I'd better shut my mouth. And second, why the hell not? If it is going to improve your mood, then by all means. How do you plan to do that?"

Swell, Kirsten has also noticed that he's been wading through some mental funk.

"I'm gonna eat. That's the gist, right?"

They laugh.

"I have an appointment with a nutritionist on Thursday, so hopefully they'll give me some tips on how to do it safely."

"That's... very responsible, Foggy," she says, impressed.

Foggy smiles.

"I'm glad you think that way. Thanks for your support, Kirsten."

She covers his hand with her own. It's very warm.

"Any time. Let's get Matt to bake you a pie. I know he can bake delicious stuff when he's in the mood."

"Ummm..." Foggy drawls. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"I am not a hundred percent certain he'd be in the mood, given the cause."

"And why would that be?"

It seems, nothing has changed in Kirsten’s voice, in her posture; she hasn't moved at all. And yet, her last words are now tinged with the tone of dangerous darkness.

"He's, um," Foggy mumbles around the awkwardness. "He's always been enthusiastic about me losing weight."

"Oh, has he."

"You know how he is about my diet. And he got that workout area in our last office in New York."

"Did he now."

Foggy dares a close look at her, and wow, she is pissed. Her playful magpie eyes have gone stormy and narrow, and her face is now tinted a darker, angry red. The classic tell-tale signs that someone is about to experience the wrath of the great and fearsome Kirsten McDuffie, and they are going to regret all of their life and their choices.

"Kirsten," Foggy pleads, trying to catch her hand and soothe her. "Please no warfare at home, would you."

"All this time I thought he was just sensitive about strong smells!" she finally explodes. "I even encouraged this behavior! And now I learn he's been body policing you for years?!"

It... does sound bad when she says it like this. Still, Foggy is reasonably sure that Matt is mostly benevolent, if misguided; he wouldn't do something like that simply to be cruel. Also, Foggy is really not looking forward to a grand scandal that seems about to break out on his behalf.

"He _is_ picky about the smells," he reasons. "That part is true!"

"It's not an excuse!" she bellows.

Honest to god bellows.

“Come on, Kirsten, it’s not so bad.”

“There is a word for that,” she says, steel in her voice.

Foggy knows what word she's thinking of, but he doesn't want to hear it and doesn't want it applied to his home life.

"Don't say it," he asks. "Look, we don't know how he's gonna react yet, maybe he won't be weird about this at all. Besides, it's my relationship with Matt, I need to deal with it myself, okay? Please let me figure it out on my own."

Kirsten sighs, and her expression turns softer and kinder.

"If you found out your friend has been bullying your other friend, would you not interfere? But okay, I won't say anything."

Foggy knows that the sin of choice in his life has probably been the crime of omission, but he's learned better over the years. He takes Kirsten's hands gently and smiles.

"Thank you."

"But fair warning, if he is a jerk about it, I will find out and I will kick his ass. Deal?"

"Deal."

After that they share more tea and sandwiches over the less explosive topics. It's a nice evening.

 

Matt comes home about nine, through the door, in his day suit. He fumbles about at the entrance, folding his cane and kicking off his shoes.

“Honeys, I’m home!” he calls cheerfully as he appears from the corridor.

Foggy looks up from his laptop. He was browsing job offers for a while, but nothing caught his eye, maybe because his mind kept going back to the impending conversation and how it could put a serious strain on their whole home dynamic. He exchanges a look with Kirsten, a book forgotten in her lap. She is also bracing for impact.

Matt enters the living room and stops dead, immediately catching on the tension in the air.

“What’s going on?” he asks and licks his lips, nervous. “What did I do?”

“You haven't done anything,” Kirsten says, levelled.

_Yet_ is rather clear in her voice. Matt stands wide and crosses his arms on his chest. Great. Foggy shoots a warning glare at Kirsten. A confrontation from the very get-go won't do anyone any good.

“What's going on?” Matt asks again. “What's with the intervention?”

“Nothing much,” Foggy says soothingly. “There is just something I want to tell you. I don't want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Kinda looks like a big deal now,” Matt says, a little too harsh. “Spill. What is it? Are you pregnant? Do you want to break up? Have you mouthed off to a supervillain?”

“I’ll have you know, I haven’t mouthed off to supervillains for years, now,” Foggy scoffs, irked.

Matt huffs and gives Foggy one of his prime turtle faces.

“Matt, please, come here.”

“Okay,” he concedes at last and approaches cautiously, as if Foggy is a wild animal.

Foggy rolls his eyes at maximum amplitude to make sure it is audible to Matt.

“It is really not a big deal. I don’t want it to be. I’ve been thinking. Now that the novelty of being thin and pretty has worn off, I feel that it doesn't really suit me. I dunno. As much as the tv, society in general and you in particular have been telling me it should be good, I'm not really digging this look. Or this feel. What I mean to say, I'm going to gain my weight back. I didn't lose it on purpose and I want it back.”

Matt opens his mouth, then closes it and frowns.

“You wanna gain weight?” he asks stupidly.

“Yes, Matt.”

“But why is this set up like an ambush on me personally?”

Which... understandable. They have kind of got Matt trapped in here, and it does look like an intervention. No wonder he got defensive at once. Foggy sighs. Should have thought this through better.

“Because as far as I can tell, you have always been an asshole about it!” Kirsten finally blows up.

Matt puffs up right back and turns to her. Now this whole mess is gonna start a row between Matt and Kirsten. So _not_ what Foggy wanted.

He jumps up and places himself between them. He gets in Matt’s face, a little bit, but that's for the better.

“I'm ready to leave it in the past,” he says and adds with emphasis: “if you are.”

Matt turns his face to him and it loses some of its rigour.

“Come on guys,” Foggy looks between Matt and Kirsten. “Not a big deal, remember?”

I just want to live in peace, he adds mentally, hoping that they will catch his brain waves, or something.

“My mind is made up,” he says, firm. “I am telling you about this because we are a family. Because I care about what you guys think, and your opinion is important to me. But it won't affect my decision. I am counting on your support here, Matt, and if you don’t wanna accept that, then we'll have a problem, apparently. But there is that.”

This seems to be the right thing to say. Kirsten settles back down, and Matt deflates.

“Foggy, I...” he begins. “This is a bit sudden, but of course I will support you. What… What exactly do you need me to say right now?”

Matt pushes his glasses higher onto his nose. His face has gone soft and uncertain; he’s not asking just to be difficult, it’s a genuine question. This is not Matt Murdock being a jerk. Time to call off the dogs. Foggy takes his hand.

“Just what you think.”

“Well. What I can say is this. Every time I came to see you at the hospital, - there was less of you than the day before. You were fading so fast, and I wanted so bad to get up to you and share my strength somehow, and I couldn’t. What I mean is, it was awful. If there’s gonna be more Foggy Nelson in the world, I won’t be upset.”

“So, it’s okay?” Foggy asks.

“It’s okay. Okay?”

“Okay,” Kirsten says.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Foggy sums up. “And I promise, I am being smart about this.”

 

Once it’s established that it is, indeed, _okay_ , the visit to the nutritionist is the easiest part. Foggy gets his charts and his diet plans and his lifestyle advice, and gets to work.

Kirsten is the one taking Foggy's measurements every week. He could do it himself, but creating a pattern with friends feels more affirming, and frankly, he could use some validation. Matt is useless with the tape-measure and scales, and anyway, given their history with the subject, the experience would be just a bit too raw, if it were Matt monitoring Foggy's progress. He always stays in the room, but the task itself falls on Kirsten, who is enthusiastic about it.

She gets him to stand straight on the scales, wraps the tape around his waist and hips and writes down the numbers in a notebook Foggy keeps to make sure he's gaining at a healthy rate. There is some tension in the air when it happens; the experience may not be sexual, but it is sensual alright: Kirsten's cool slender fingers touching his bare stomach, an occasional scratch of a blunt nail along his side, the thoughtful "Hm" noises she makes as she studies the results of the measurements. Matt, sitting there on the sofa, must also feel it, because he often looks somewhat stiff. At first Foggy thought it may be because he's still weird about Foggy's weight (too bad, Murdock); but then one time he catches Matt making a face that he knows for a fact means "I am trying to use my ninja training and mental discipline to force down an inconvenient boner", so there is that. Huh.

 

Something about their arrangement must be working out, because things are looking up. Weeks and months walk by slowly, the summer rolls around, and Foggy, for one, eventually stops waiting for the other shoe to drop, for some new disaster to hit them. It seems like Matt is doing better on that front, too. Foggy suspects it has something to do with Kirsten’s presence: despite her grand persona and frequent temperamental outbursts, she has a very steady core. Also, when you have a third party in your life, it quickly kills off your desire to rock the boat when the sailing's smooth, Foggy finds out.

Matt gets better at relationships, too.

"That past year had a lot of lessons," Matt says one night, sitting on the balcony railing with his cowl pulled off, when Foggy asks him about it. "I want this to work."

"Yeah, me too," Foggy says.

"I'll be back soon," Matt grins, kisses him, then fixes his mask and leaps into the city, into the glowing red embers of the sunset.

Foggy follows his silhouette for as long as he can see it, disappearing from sight. He’s learned so much about his housemates in the last several months. About Kirsten, most of all, of course, - that lilac is her favorite flower, but she likes all purple flowers, because that's her fave colour. That she likes cats and dogs equally, but her one and only pet was a guinea pig named Richard, and nothing and no one will ever replace him. That she can sleep anywhere and likes to change it up often, on a whim: so far she has spent several nights on the couch, on an inflatable mattress in the kitchen (Foggy was surprised and alarmed to find her there one Sunday morning, but Matt, who stepped into the kitchen behind him, just waved him down and explained in whisper, that it was normal. They didn't want to wake her and ended up having breakfast at a cafe on the corner), out on the balcony on a particularly hot night in late May. Kirsten is a riot, a great friend to have fun with; but she's also a bedrock, a stalwart ally.

Foggy thought he knew everything there is to know about Matt, but as usual, Matt managed to surprise him. Because there are things to learn about him, as well. Foggy thought he'd be loud and bratty in bed; it turns out, he's not bratty at all, and he's quiet. Matt likes to be held down and gently guided; he likes to be talked to sweet and kissed and fucked rough, he sighs and moans quiet and breathy; he likes to be told how good and precious he is, and it's easy, because that's exactly what Foggy wants to tell him, what Foggy wants to do to him.

 

You can only spend so much time online. Isolation and idleness quickly become suffocating. Foggy swallows his uneasy agoraphobia once, twice, and then going out alone gets easier.

He starts with the pool: all the doctors he's seen have recommended some form of physical activity, and swimming seems the easiest solution. He goes once a week, and the first several times are hard, because he gets winded at once. But he powers through; it's a nice sort of challenge, and the cool embrace of water is fresh and soothing. He's missed that. The stranger in swim trunks he meets in the locker room's mirror looks a little more familiar each time.

Farmers’ market and meat deli are next. Since his housemates have both got shit to do, Foggy takes it upon himself to contribute in the form of meals. Matt's gonna grumble if he cooks from subpar products, so Foggy makes a point to get his cold cuts and high-calorie dairy from the best vendors. The butcher he frequents has a nice hairstyle, his shoulder-length hair gathered in a ponytail; Foggy thinks of maybe plagiarizing it once his locks have sufficiently grown.

He goes to meet his neighbours that he's only heard stories of. The couple next door are newlywed artists.

"Honestly, we were so lucky that Nayan's family is supportive, we could never afford the downpayment for this place on our own," Dasha says, leading Foggy down the corridor covered in posters and drawings pinned to the wall. "The world of graphic design isn't exactly a gold mine."

"We get by, though," her wife calls back. "And what do you guys in 4d do for a living?"

"We are all lawyers, by profession and vocation. I'm a little bit unemployed right now, though."

"Is any one of you Daredevil?" Dasha asks. "I heard he lives in this building with his fam, but we tend to hole up in here, and we haven't met any of the neighbours yet."

"Yup, that's us," Foggy grins.

God, it feels great to say that and not look for believable excuses. Bless Matt's coming out.

"Do you think we could persuade him to pose for a quick sketch?"

"Haha, I don't know. He's rather busy with his double shifts and all. But you can always draw me, I'm swimming in free time as of now."

"Well, we also keep odd hours, so drop by any time!"

Next time he knocks on their door, Nayan actually does draw him, it's inks and markers, and it looks much better on his bedroom wall than his obituary would.

Most people are aware that Daredevil inhabits the place, Foggy finds out, as he visits other tenants; not everyone is as cool as Dasha and Nayan, but most are easily bought by his reawakening charm and homemade snacks. Foggy learns their names and pets their dogs and talks about their interests. He meets the tango lady from downstairs, too. Her name is Eleonora, she turns out to be older than he thought, about sixty, maybe. She likes wearing long, flowing gowns, and there is something classy about her that reminds Foggy of old Hollywood movies. And she is happy.

"I always used to do what other people wanted me to. Family, jobs, there were always obligations. When I retired, I moved here to live on my own, as I have always wanted. It's important to give yourself space to live your own life, on your terms," she tells him kindly over pancakes.

"Believe me," Foggy answers, stuffing his face, "I'm working on that."

 

It all pays off, eventually. One day he's picking up sour cream at a Russian store, when an aged man with bushy gray hair and eyebrows approaches him and smiles a calculated smile.

"Are you by any chance Franklin Nelson?" the guy asks.

Instantly, Foggy knows it is business, and good one at that.

"I am Nelson, yes," he answers, friendly.

"Professor Mannan, Ariv Mannan," the guy introduces himself, shaking Foggy's hand. "From University of San Francisco. I heard you are looking into career options at the moment?"

"That's one way of putting it, yeah."

"I may have an offer for you, Mr. Nelson. Could we talk somewhere casual?"

Foggy takes him to a pretzel place half a block away. They sit by the window with their coffees, as Professor Mannan explains.

"My niece is a friend of a brother of your neighbour... Anyway. Through a series of acquaintances I heard that I might meet you in the vicinity, and I lucked out. You have been elusive online, Mr. Nelson."

"Oh well. Just trying to keep a low profile, that's all."

"Understandable," Mannan agrees. "I followed the story for a while. I was very glad to hear you are among the living again."

"You gotta do what you gotta do," Foggy says.

Thankfully, before he really starts to get anxious or defensive, the professor gets to the point:

"We are looking for a lecturer at the Law School. Someone with a lot of experience and a potentially new outlook on the system. Defense is ever popular, and vigilante law is also a blooming branch at the moment.”

Foggy stares.

“What are you saying? You think I am your guy?”

“I like to keep my finger on the pulse,” Mannan shrugs. “You may have been disbarred, but it doesn’t negate your experience or your insight. Nelson and Murdock made a name for itself in the legal circles, by taking challenging cases and using bold, inventive tactics. This is something you may want to hand over to the younger generation. Now, we don’t exactly bathe in cash over on the Lone Mountain, but we can offer a competitive salary, if you are interested in a teaching career.”

“Well, I’m only a half of the former Nelson and Murdock,” Foggy says cautiously.

“Well, if an autobiography that I’ve recently read is any indication, the Nelson half spent more time working the cases than the Daredevil half,” Mannan smiles.

“Heh,” Foggy chuckles. “Okay, this is interesting. Obviously I can’t tell you anything definitive right now, but I will give your offer a serious thought.”

They agree on a formal interview at the University next Monday. Mannan shakes his hand and leaves Foggy to contemplate this sudden opportunity alone over his cooling coffee.

 

He wants to talk it over with Matt, but Matt is preoccupied with his night job at the moment. For the most part, it's just patrol and street-level baddies, but from time to time something more sinister starts brewing about, and a case takes Matt away for several days.

"Matt texted," Kirsten says instead of a greeting Monday morning when Foggy shuffles out of his room and into the kitchen.

Getting back into a proper daytime schedule is necessary, but honestly, it sucks.

"Yeah?" he croaks, then clears his throat.

Kirsten laughs at him. Easy for her. Darn morning people.

"Yeah. Says he's out of town until Thursday night at least."

"Aw shit," Foggy sits heavily at the table and takes the cup of coffee that Kirsten pours for him with a grateful hand. "Thanks. So, he never came home last night?"

"Nah. I didn't notice, I though he went to sleep with you."

"And I thought he was with you."

They chuckle at each other, but there's the unspoken worry there, too. Kirsten finishes her breakfast and make-up. She's running a little late, and Foggy urges her on, assuring her he'll do the dishes before he goes to his interview. When she's almost at the door, he says:

"He'll be alright, Kirsten. He always pulls through."

"I know," she says and leans to give him a kind kiss on the cheek. "And you do, too."

 

That night sleep is elusive. Foggy floats semi-awake, listening to the faint sounds of the city he’s gradually growing to know and like. He hasn’t got bat ears, but he can play this, too, right? Feeling the place, getting to know it, like Matt does. San Francisco has this feel of a really big town, of course, but the air is easier than in New York, a little, just a tad less oppressive. Maybe it’s the Pacific; maybe it’s being free of illness and the ties that held him in place for most of his adult life. New York seems awfully far away, breathing on the other side of land. It’s not unlike the divorce: this cold thrill of freedom; you miss them like crazy, but you also see the boundless road ahead of you, a step into the unknown and a chance to make it all better. Is that how Matt feels when he goes out at night?..

Around one after midnight he hears footsteps in the living room, light and listless. It must be Kirsten, just as insomniac. Foggy gives up on chasing sleep and leaves his room, joins her on the couch. They sit in the companionable dusk for a while.

“How was your interview?” Kirsten asks after a long pause.

“It was great. Pretty sure I’m gonna get this job if I accept.”

“Are you gonna accept?”

“Yeah, we are gonna need the money soon.”

The salary offer sounded really nice in the dean’s mouth. Foggy ached to be able to contribute something other than washed dishes to the household.

“This doesn’t ring very enthusiastic,” Kirsten comments, turning to face him.

Something in her eyes reminds him of Matt so much; the insight, the grip, he wonders if it’s a Matt and Kirsten thing; or a lawyer thing; or just their little family thing. He wonders, if he has it, too.

“Well,” he sighs. “I don’t exactly have teaching experience. They say it’s fine, but I dunno, it seems kinda daunting.”

“You’ll do fine,” Kirsten laughs.

“That one time I had to teach a class in grad school, it was awful, nobody listened to me. I actually had to do three classes, but I talked my way out of it, haha.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“And the students? Nineteen? Would you have listened to a twenty-two year old, when you were nineteen?”

“Well, if he were as hot,” Foggy shakes his hair dramatically.

They laugh.

“Come on, Foggy. You know how to talk to the jury and how to address the public. How is a class of grad students any different?”

“They’re kids, I don’t know how to deal with kids. Even when I was one myself.”

“Think of it this way: you have a lot of fascinating real life law experience. You have a lot to teach them.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. Weren’t you a DA or something?” Kirsten smiles.

Her tone is teasing, but the look in her eyes that Foggy can just make out in the shimmery darkness is serious and kind. She means it. All of a sudden the room and apartment and the whole wide world around it feel just a little bit more like home.

“Let the guy have insecurities.”

“Not a chance. You’ll do fine.”

She yawns.

"You should sleep, you gotta get up early tomorrow," Foggy says.

"I know, I'm wiped, actually. Just, too many thoughts. I'd rather not sleep than be alone in my head right now."

Foggy sighs. He knows the feeling all too well; it comes as a freebie with vigilante friends and romances. These restless nights when you simply don't know; maybe if you stay awake just another ten minutes, there will be a tap-tap-tap on the window, the familiar careful steps on the creaky floor, the whispered apology and the warm, cherished presence to rock you to sleep. Kirsten is a tough cookie, and she knew what she was getting into from day one, but of course the waiting and the uncertainty is getting to her. Part of Foggy is sorry she has to go through it; another, bigger and guiltier part is glad that he's not alone in this.

"How wide is your bed?" he asks.

"Ikea's standard double, we assembled it together," she says, flat.

Foggy snorts.

"Yeah, okay. This was more of a leading question. I can keep you company, if you want."

Kirsten makes a couple of lewd jokes at that, but it's still friendly and okay, so they move their insomnia to Kirsten's room and settle in bed. The pillow that Foggy gets smells both like Kirsten's shampoo and Matt's aftershave. This gives Foggy a strange feeling, just like when they'd all come to this threesome arrangement, - new, uncharted, off piste.

“Eh, what the hell,” Kirsten says. “C’mere.”

Foggy turns gratefully, wraps her in a hug, and they hold on.

“You’re getting bigger,” she comments.

“I never thought I’d take this as a compliment, but thanks,” Foggy says.

Sleep comes easy after that.

 

The next night Kirsten shows up on his doorstep herself.

“You up for some cuddles?” she asks.

“Sure, welcome. My door is always open for fellow insomniacs and cuddles. Although it’s a bit cramped in here. Let’s move to Matt’s room?"

They decide that a sleepover in Matt’s bed sounds just the right amount of mischief. They talk a lot that night, about many things. Foggy enjoys her company; they started out as people who mostly had their love for Matt in common, but since then they have grown much closer. Kirsten tells him about her teen years and a lot of emotional turmoil that happened back then, figuring out she wasn’t straight, figuring out how to be in a relationship without hurting yourself and your partner. Foggy tells her about all the little ways cancer fucked him up, the loss of sexuality being one of them, because it’s not just that you feel like shit, it’s many other things, losing hair where you had it since you were eleven, having zero desire to even think of anything good; and how only now it is beginning to come back. Talking is easy with Kirsten.

"I'm going to make you a weird compliment," Foggy says. "But it comes from the heart."

"Oh yeah?" she laughs, curious. "What is it?"

"You are really great to be depressed around. I see now why you and Matt got on like a house on fire. You are unbelievably cool, Kirsten."

"So are you, Foggy."

He waves a hand at that.

"Nah, I'm a sidekick, you are a proper hero."

"Oh come on!"

"No, I mean it. You got your own arch-nemesis and everything. I'm a sidekick through and through. I could be your sidekick too, if you wanna.”

“That depends. How easily can my enemies buy you over and learn all my secrets from you?”

“At this point I’m pretty unbuyable. I used to have a soft spot for snacks, and I still love them, but I can’t digest this stuff anymore. I’ll say, your secrets are safe.”

It has gone from sleepless conversation to sleepless flirting. It’s new but also it feels strangely right. Kirsten grins at him, she must be getting this mood as well.

“How come you date Matt and I date Matt, but we don’t date each other?” she asks.

“I think this could be renegotiated,” he says. “You wanna date me?”

I don’t see why not, if you’re already my sidekick. Let’s sort it out with Matt, when he returns.”

“I’m having such a deja vu right now, you wouldn’t believe,” Foggy laughs. “Alright. Let’s.”

 

It doesn’t go exactly as planned, though. At dawn Foggy is poked in the ribs; the concerned expression on Kirsten’s face is enough to wake him up all the way.

“What’s the matter?” he mumbles.

She gestures to follow her. In the living room Foggy sees Matt, curled up asleep on the couch, still wearing his costume - mask and all, covered in scratches and soot. They sit near him, pull the headpiece off and gently shake him awake.

“Mhhhmm,” he mumbles and opens his eyes blearily.

He looks pale, tired and miserable.

“Hey, Matt,” Kirsten says softly. “We didn’t hear you get in. Why didn’t you go to bed?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs. “It was occupied. Didn’t wanna disturb you.”

“We thought you’d return tomorrow night,” Foggy says and runs his fingers through Matt’s greasy hair.

He sighs, exhausted, and leans into the touch.

“Finished early. Wanted to go home.”

Foggy catches Kirsten’s eye, and he knows they are thinking the same thing: this is home. This place is home for Matt and for Foggy and for Kirsten, equally a home for the three of them. They are each other’s home now.

“C’mon,” Foggy says. “Let’s get you to bed.”

They lead Matt to his room and undress him; he’s a little smelly but not bad enough to need a shower, so they just tuck him in to rest. When they are about to leave, Matt makes a sad noise and reaches out.

“Stay,” he says.

Foggy and Kirsten crawl under the blanket and hold him from either side, until they all doze off.

 

Matt sleeps for eighteen hours, wanders into the kitchen, eats half of what there is in the fridge and goes on to sleep for five more hours. He looks much better on Friday, having taken a shower, shaved and treated his superficial but multiple scratches. He huffs and puffs and avoids contact; it’s probably not about them sharing his bed while he was away, but Foggy is still a little on edge. In the end, they get Matt to talk, or more like, Kirsten gets him to talk when she comes home after work. Foggy is just kind of there.

 

“There was a telepath,” Matt says, eventually.

Foggy grimaces. Fighting telepathic supervillains is always hard, especially for those who have a lot to live down.

“Ouch.”

“There is this one drug on the streets, I was following the distribution to get them to stop. But it wasn’t the usual chain of command of a drug dealers’ ring. There were street thugs - and there was someone alone at the top. Turned out it was a telepath, not a very strong one, but nasty. Calls himself Nostalgio. He shows people what they miss most, what they want but cannot have. Then he gives them the drug to make it go away.”

“That's evil,” Kirsten says hotly.

“Villains are called villains for a reason,” Matt sighs. “Well, he’s in jail now.”

“Did he…” Foggy starts, even though he knows the answer.

Of course he did.

“He made me think of New York. And I miss it so much. So much.”

“Me too,” Foggy  says.

“And me,” Kirsten echoes.

But they both know it's different for Matt. He loves New York so fiercely, Hell's Kitchen runs deep in his veins in a way that only people who grew up there could understand.

“If only there was a way to go back,” Matt whispers, his face shadowy and far away.

“We can't, not for a long while,” Kirsten says.

“Yes, I know.”

“I hope you are not contemplating a stupid plan to get some telepathic or magical entity - god knows there is a surplus of those, - to make everyone forget that you are Daredevil,”  Foggy says. This is unlikely, but knowing Matt, everything is possible. “If you are, this is the part when I don't let you “ruin it”.”

“Yeah I'm with Foggy on this,” Kirsten says and lays a firm hand on Matt’s shoulder. “We have a good life here. Let's keep it.”

Matt gives them a watery smile.

“Thank you,” he says. “I know.”

“You got the bad guys,” Foggy says. “Everything is alright.”

“Yes,” Matt says and takes a deep breath, shaking off the gloomy mood. “His street minions, though. Gave me a run for my money. I swear, they are getting faster every year.”

“Hate to mention it, but you’re gonna be forty next November, buddy. Cut yourself some slack when you’re dealing with the young and misguided.”

“Maybe you should take an apprentice,” Kirsten says out of nowhere.

Matt and Foggy both turn to her.

“Please elaborate?” Matt says.

“Well, just as Foggy said, we are not getting any younger. He’s got this offer to teach law to students, and it got me thinking, maybe you could teach some hothead the proper art of vigilante justice. Just sayin’.”

“This is a tremendously good idea,” Foggy says. “Someone to watch your back. I know you like to think of yourself as a lone wolf, but you’re really not. You are not alone here, and you shouldn’t be out there.”

“You guys,” Matt says, shaky, and pulls them in. “The other night I longed so much for coming home, and then I sensed you two asleep together in my bed, I just felt. Home.”

“Yeah,” Foggy scratches his neck. “About that…”

 

Foggy accepts the uni offer. It's new and scary as hell, but so is pretty much everything at the moment. At least he's got a little time to prepare before the semester begins.

He sleeps with Matt and he sleeps with Kirsten, usually when Matt is away, but not exclusively. Sometimes he sleeps alone and sometimes they all sleep together. Frankly, it's a mess of logistics and scheduling, but his suggestion of working out some sort of system or timetable of who sleeps where got booed, so improvisation it is.

He eats well and he gets his waist measured and weight taken every weekend, and now it is something to look forward to, not only because it gives him the sense of achievement (he's grown ten pounds heavier since he's started), but it usually turns frisky at the end. Now that Matt has reformed from his fatphobic ways, he develops a serious chub kink. Heck, maybe those were really the two sides of the same coin all along, who knows. Kirsten usually joins in, too.

As a whole, Foggy tries to adopt a more flexible outlook. It's less like looking for firm ground and more like learning to surf on the waves of change. When the time comes for his regular thorough medical checkup, he's nervous, but he feels steady enough to take it.

 

The night before the appointment Matt doesn’t go out on patrol and comes to Foggy’s room instead. He sits on the bed and holds Foggy’s hand in the dark.

“If you want, I could check you.”

“You missed it back then, though. Wait… did your sudden obsession with my gym regimen have anything to do with you sniffing my tumor?”

Matt makes a face, scratches his nose, as if the stripe of pale street light is itchy on his face.

“I don’t know. Maybe? What I perceive is not always conscious or rational. Something about you was off, I dunno.”

He huffs, irritated at himself for his inability to formulate his ideas verbally.

“But I know now. I know what to look for. And I’m ninety percent sure you are fine.”

Foggy sighs and agrees to be checked, hoping it will help with his nerves, like Matt insists.

Matt lays him out on the bed, like an exotic dish served on the white linen. It’s the most naked Foggy has ever been in his life, flat on his back and open to all of Matt’s senses.

“Your heartbeat is a bit fast,” Matt comments, laying his hand on Foggy’s chest, as if trying to calm it.

“No shit,” Foggy laughs.

“It’s okay,” Matt says and smiles his soft smile. “I got you.”

He starts with the top of Foggy’s head and moves slowly downwards. He runs his fingers through Foggy’s baby hair way gentler than a simple exam requires. He smells around Foggy’s ears, adorable little ticklish sniffs.

“What do my ears smell like, doc?” Foggy giggles, squirming.

“Shush, keep still,” Matt lulls him. “Like valerian root.”

Foggy quiets, surprised by this revelation. Matt presses his lips against Foggy’s and licks a little, nudging them to open. Foggy wants to tease him about abusing his role of a diagnostician, but the kiss is delicate, Matt touching the inside of his mouth, his palate and teeth with his tongue, sucking lightly on his gums. When it is over Matt straightens and sits back with a contemplative look on his face, his mouth moving around the taste he stole from Foggy. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was also a sample.

Matt moves lower and listens to Foggy’s chest but not before running sensitive fingers over Foggy’s arms pressing gently here and there, holding his hands for several long moments and feeling each knuckle of his fingers. When he presses his ear to Foggy’s sternum, he instructs him to breathe deep and slow, then fast and shallow, then to talk. Foggy tells him how he met Eleonora the baking neighbor. Matt taps on his ribs and listens to something inside.

He is very thorough about Foggy’s belly or maybe he just likes its newfound softness. Either way, he pokes it all over, pressing deep to feel for whatever it is that catches his interest. He doesn't jab like doctors often do, the touch is gentle. He listens, embarrassingly, to his stomach and bowels and hums appreciatively.

“Hearing something you like?” Foggy asks, a little self-conscious.

Matt listening to gas travel through his digestive tract - not casually across the room, when he just can't help it, but for real, his ear and both hands pressed flat to his belly is embarrassing. Weirdly exhilarating as well, but Foggy is not ready to admit it yet. Too soon.

“Mhm,” Matt says agreeably, “some exemplary gurgles right there. A-plus.”

He draws a long breath from Foggy’s navel.

“You have gunk in your belly button,” he complains.

The nerve.

“It’s not gunk! Lint, at worst.”

“You need to clean your crevices better,” Matt grins, the jerk.

“Everyone’s a critic,” Foggy sighs. “Well, take it out, while you’re at it.”

Matt picks his belly button, then kisses it sweetly, when gets a bit sore after all the abuse, and moves on lower. He inspects Foggy’s hips for a long while, perhaps because that's where all the hell broke loose last time (the only time, Foggy tells himself firmly), or maybe he just likes to tease. He smells and tastes Foggy down there, devout and thorough and really, really kinky; then moves further. He checks Foggy’s legs, all the way down to the tips of his toes, and by the time he’s done, there is not a single spot on Foggy’s whole body that hasn’t been inspected.

“I am 99.9% sure that you are fine,” Matt says at last, crawling back up and nuzzling Foggy’s face for kisses.

“I trust your nose like nothing else, but we must let the traditional medicine have its word.”

“If you want me to, I can go with you,” Matt offers.

Foggy looks him over, his attentive, caring face; and listens to himself. He can take it.

“Naw,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Matt smiles. “I’ll make you a pie.”

“What, you’re not gonna insist on herding me? You used to hover so much, where’d all this overprotectiveness go? I liked it.”

“There was something… fragile about you,” Matt says. “It is gone now. You are better.”

“Are _you_ better?” Foggy asks.

Matt sighs and nuzzles him again.

“I will be. With you and Kirsten, I will be.”

“Come on, then. Let’s go invade her room.”

 

It's not a single appointment, of course. It's a whole series of tests, probes, conversations with specialists over the span of several days. Foggy mostly dissociates through it, focusing instead on planning his vigilante law course. Being anxious about two different things at once is hard, and they sort of cancel each other out, until the flurry dies down and Foggy receives a clean bill of health.

He decides against a taxi or public transport and just walks the streets without hurry, feeling alright and free. The sun is scorching, but the heat is good today. Foggy knows that when he gets home, there will be champagne and toasts, there will be a home-made, Matt-baked pie. There will be laughter long into the night and a lot of fun celebratory three-way sex.

There is no rush. Foggy is walking home, but in a way, he’s already there.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first try at a fic this long, so on the one hand, I implore you to be kind, but on the other hand, I am looking forward to all and every bit of constructive criticism, please!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "Breathing on the Other Side Land" (fanart)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11793903) by [bravinto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravinto/pseuds/bravinto), [chargetransfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chargetransfer/pseuds/chargetransfer)




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